


Adventures in Breathing

by NeriEsle



Series: Plucked from the Earth [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:32:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeriEsle/pseuds/NeriEsle
Summary: In the past few months, Sherlock would have lit himself on fire over and over to have this moment again... *MAJOR SPOILERS* for my WIP "Plucked from the Earth", although could be read as a stand-alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> But it's been such A Week From Hell that I wanted to write something a little fluffy. This is a tiny spec of a moment after "Plucked From the Earth" ends, and though it doesn't give away the plot, the characters involved are spoilers. Big, major spoilers.
> 
> PFtE is a heavy piece of angst (similar to real world this week). I wanted to show that there's light at the end of the tunnel. There's always light at the end of the tunnel.

The knot in his chest would not dissipate. Sherlock tried the breathing he’d learned these past several months… the techniques he’d had to use when waking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, certain he was back in an empty, cold, dark 221b with nothing good and light in his life any longer. It always took a few seconds to remember where he was,  _ when _ he was, and recall what happened to lead him here.

It was all a trick. A cruel, wonderful, painful, joyous trick.

He sat in the bright, white, light and airy wing of his Mind Palace, sitting on the ground, crossed-legged, eyes closed, breathing through his nose, as he did every day for three months with others who were as good as dead in their addictions, and in their last resort along with him. With each breath he took, he’d feel the square of folded up paper containing John’s words, thoughts, wishes, and care press against his chest, in his breast pocket right over his heart, and with each exhale, the fear and terror and grief and loss would lessen just a bit.

Usually the breathing worked. Usually John’s presence worked. This evening, though…

It was different. Everything was different now. It would never be as it was, and the thought was nearly too much for Sherlock to bear.

He left his Mind Palace and breathed in the lingering scents of that evening’s dinner, mixed with the new scent of talcum powder. He felt the air around him, warmer in the flat than usual for this time of year. The flat itself fuller than usual, oddly enough. It wasn’t really. There was the tiniest intrusion, but the air was thick with unsaid words, unacknowledged feelings, thoughts so heavy they were almost tactile.

There came the familiar, wonderful sounds of creaking stairs. Sherlock inhaled deeply, and his exhale was slightly shaky with awed disbelief.

How he had yearned, with every particle of his being, to have been able to hear that sound again. And there it was, cleansing his ears.

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed as he pretended to still be in his Mind Palace. He was not nervous. He was certainly not  _ scared _ . His elevated heart rate and shaking fingers could be attributed to his metabolism in overdrive. He’d eaten so much at dinner and never realized it, barely able to take his eyes off John. By the time John gone upstairs, Sherlock’s stomach felt full to bursting. He’d retreated to the sofa, confused that he hadn’t even noticed his empty plate until it had been cleared from before him.

Sherlock heard John set something on the coffee table, and then the sound of him settling into his armchair made Sherlock’s nose and eyes prickle, although he kept them firmly closed, his fingers pressed tightly against his lips.

He still could not believe John was really here, alive, healthy, whole, and sitting in his chair, where he belonged.

“She fell asleep immediately.” John’s voice was bemused. “That’s never happened since… usually I have to rock her or read to her or move until she’s asleep in my arms. Tonight, she was out as soon as she hit the crib.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered, eyes still closed, fingers still tented. “Full belly, warm room as heat rises, expensive top-rated crib that Mycroft brought specifically so there’d be no crying to interrupt my experiments…” He stopped talking, suddenly afraid he’d revealed too much.

“Yes, God forbid she intrude on your mold collecting.” John’s voice held warmth and laughter. So he hadn’t picked up on Sherlock’s hint. Or had he? Sherlock couldn’t tell, so he opened one eye.

John looked… peaceful. Content. Yes, the lines around his eyes were more pronounced, his face thinner and a bit greyer, ends of his lips still holding a bit of a downturn. But… his eyes were bright and warm as he looked over at Sherlock, and his body language was relaxed and settled in his chair. The ugly scar on his head was nearly invisible in the dim firelight from the grate.

He looked so normal, Sherlock might have been able to pretend the past several months had never happened.

But the churning on Sherlock’s stomach, and the fact that he was nervous in John’s presence made pretending impossible. Sherlock was far too aware of the fact that this was the first time since… well, it was the first time in months that Sherlock and John had been alone together, under normal, bland circumstances. In the past few months, Sherlock would have lit himself on fire over and over to have this moment again, and now that it was here, he didn’t know what to do or say.

John, of course, noticed Sherlock’s discomfort. He frowned gery slightly. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

“You’ve been… off… all evening. Was this too much? Did you want us to go -?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Then why are you all… twitchy.”

“I’m not.”

“Your pinkies seem to disagree.”

Opening his eyes again, he hadn’t even realized his little fingers were tapping each other frantically. They stopped as soon as he realized it.

“Are you having cravings?” 

The seriousness of John’s tone made Sherlock freeze. He met John’s gaze firmly. “No, John.”

John gave the smallest of nods, accepting that answer. “Then will you tell me what’s flapping around in that great brain of yours?”

“Nothing.”

“Hah. That’s a big fat lie.”

“Let it go, John.”

“No. No more secrets. We promised.”

Damn him, they had. Sherlock took a deep, long-suffering sigh. “You are a father now, John.”

“Yes.”

“A single father.”

“Yes.”

“With responsibilities and obligations that would conflict with our previous lifestyle.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock closed his mouth, his point proven. He looked away from John’s patient stare and fixed his gaze pointedly on the fire in the grate.

“Do you have a problem with that?” John’s tone wasn’t accusing or challenging; it was honest and curious.

“Of course not,” Sherlock forced his voice to be careless. “But surely you must.”

John frowned. “No, no I don’t.”

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes again, refusing to be forced to ask, to bare himself in such a way, to expose- 

“Would you have any objections to us staying here? For a while, anyway?”

Throat suddenly constricted, Sherlock had to take a few moments to swallow, to bite the insides of his mouth. When he opened his burning eyes and looked at John, his voice was low and gravelly and soft. “Don’t ask stupid questions, John.”

John’s mouth quirked into a smile, and Sherlock had to close his eyes again, lest John see them fill up. He heard John get to his feet with a loud exhale. A moment later, Sherlock was startled by a warm, firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Sherlock’s head automatically turned toward the hand.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said softly, his smile evident in his voice.

_ Thank  _ you _ , John _ , Sherlock thought.  _ Thank you, oh thank you, thank you… _

Giving his shoulder one final squeeze, John let go and headed to the stairs.

“John.”

John paused and looked back.

Sherlock met his gaze and held it. “221b is your home. It always was. It’s… John, it’s your  _ home _ .”

He hadn’t meant to sound so needy, but John didn’t seem to notice or care. He gave Sherlock a smile and a nod.

“You still need to get the milk tomorrow.”

Sherlock let out a bubble of laughter. John, chuckling, turned and went upstairs to bed. When he heard the door closed, the air and tension seemed to seep out of Sherlock like a deflating balloon, and he sagged forward, his head in his shaking hands. The tightness in his chest was gone, and he could breathe. The burning in his eyes was doused as some awful tears escaped, and he wiped them away before they made it into the world, grinning at nothing and unable to stop. His simplest, more ardent wish: granted.

And for the first time in nearly a year, Sherlock Holmes slept through the night and woke to the smell of breakfast cooking and newspaper rustling and gentle, quiet laughter.


End file.
